


For Once, Then, Something

by Overnighter



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, College, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-05 12:10:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1093725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Overnighter/pseuds/Overnighter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which it takes a couple of concert tickets and some angry apes to make Grantaire realize the things that matter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For Once, Then, Something

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LesMisgayrables](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LesMisgayrables/gifts).



"He's got a final in political theory on Friday," Combeferre says before he even sits all the way down at the bar. He slides the tickets that Grantaire carefully tucked into the outside pocket of Enjolras's messenger bag at the end of the meeting of the ABC last night across the bar. “He can’t go.”

He doesn’t even have the decency to look ashamed.

"He can't go." Grantaire mimics. "Are you his mother?"

"No," Combeferre says as he settles into the bar stool directly in front of Grataire. "But I am his keeper. Or sort of his keeper. His bosom friend, and the closest thing he’s got these days.”

“He loves them," Grataire protests. “That’s why I got them. They hardly ever tour. At least not around here.”

"I know.” Combeferre does this trick where he nods like he's listening but just keeps talking all the same. "He loves them and he likes you so he'll go and skip the final and now that his father's cut him off, he has to keep his scholarship." "

Oh," Grantaire says lamely, in response. It's hard to imagine Enjolras and his red wool overcoat and his artfully-disheveled hair worrying too much about college money, but it’s easy to forget about Enjolras’s family woes. He still carries himself like a rich boy – rich man – probably always will. "No, you’re right, that's more important than a concert."

Grantaire wasn’t around for Enjolras’s falling out with his family. Les Amis de l’ABC (which secretly makes Grantaire wants to whisper _and next time won’t you sing with me_ every time Combeferre intones the name at the start of their not-so-secret meetings) were still confined mostly to the meeting rooms and study carrels of the university until this past summer, and Grantaire was long since parted with his own formal education.

When Joly approached him about using the Musain for meetings this past June, murmuring about the “heavy hand of the administration,” Grantaire agreed mostly because the early-evening shift at a college bar was not very exciting on a summer weekend when most of the college students left for their own adventures. It seemed like something to do, other than chase under-aged incoming freshman away during orientation.

For the first few meetings, he was content to listen from his perch behind the bar, and roll his eyes. But then, the most curious thing happened. That slender, blond boy – with his slow walk that spoke of summers on some warm beach and his crisp cadence that spoke of prep school and debate team and things that were so far away from the people on whose behalf he claimed to speak – started to win him over. 

Not just Grantaire, it was easy to see. With his passionate speeches and his wild eyes, Enjolras drew admirers to him like moths to a candle. Not just admirers – worshippers. Grantaire redoubled his sarcastic comments and his knowing sighs, but it was too late. He succumbed.

Now, months later, it seems that his ridiculous efforts have not only been noticed by the closest thing that Enjolras has to a friend – more like a lieutenant – but dismissed outright, as though he’s still the bad boy all the neighborhood mothers warn their children about. He feels strangely embarrassed by that.

Grantaire, even as he’s gotten to know the other members of the ABC, has never really managed to figure Combeferre out. He’s quiet where Enjolras is loud; mild where Enjolras is strident; his interests have widened over time even as Enjolras has narrowed his focus with a military precision. At first, he thought that Combeferre was a remnant of Enjolras’s old life – he, too, has the louche diction and the artfully disheveled hair, but his is more likely to be from running his hands through his hair while he studies, Grantaire now knows – but then the incident at the beginning of July made him think again.

Ahead of the holiday, Enjolas worked up a head of heretofore unparalleled steam. Grantaire was pretty sure that someone, somewhere, would be storming a wall before the night ended in blood and tears and arrests and even mild-mannered Jehan was as close as he ever came to frothing at the mouth. Grantaire lobbed a few soft insults into the midst of Enjolras’s soaring rhetorical high-wire act, but it only served to spur him on. 

Finally, just as Grantaire was feeling even himself start to be swayed to the side of immediate, and apparently violent, revolution --  Combeferre raised his head from the biology text he’d been absorbed in all evening.

“Enjolras,” he said in a quiet voice. “What will you do when you’ve burned everything to the ground? Then the poor will have even less, and those who would be their natural allies will instead turn their heads in disgust. You can’t just revolt. You have to remake things, too.”

He didn’t even wait for Enjolras to respond before turning back to his book, but Enjolras looked gobsmacked all the same.

“Of course,” he said. “Of course Combeferre is right. We must focus on the outcome of the revolution, my friends. Not only the swift sword of Lady Justice.” 

Grantaire still wasn’t sure that Enjolras actually believed it, but it made him rethink Combeferre’s place in l’ABC.

Now, of course, Combeferre has already moved on from his earlier role as the keeper of Enjolras’s social calendar and has his head buried in yet another text, one that Grantaire suspects might be Organic Chemistry. He’s seen the spine lurking about at Joly’s place, and he’s seen the moué of disgust that usually accompanies it. Combeferre seems wholly absorbed, however.

It’s not Combeferre’s fault, after all, that Grantaire was too cowardly to actually ask Enjolras about his plans. Or that Enjolras sometimes forgets that his graduate degree is meant to fuel his passion, the revolution, not fall victim to it. He pulls a pint with a quiet sigh and slides it wordlessly in front of Combeferre’s dark, bent head.

“You don’t know anyone that wants a couple tickets to a great show, do you?” Grantaire asks, but there’s no string in it, not really.

He can go by himself, or ask one of the boys to come along. And he knows those Doc Martens in Joly’s closest are probably Musichetta’s. She’d be happy to come. His fantasy of getting Enjolras to loosen up and actually look _at_ him, not down at him, will remain just that.

"It does look like a great show," Combeferre says mildly, glancing up from under his overlong brown bangs, “You don’t want to use the tickets yourself?” He looks at them wistfully for a moment, still sitting in the sticky spot that always seems to remain no matter how much Grantaire polishes the bar. “I’ve never seen them live, but I hear they’re something else.”  

"You wouldn't want to, would you?" Grantaire asks as he pulls himself a pint to match Combeferre’s. At this time on a Tuesday, Houcheloup is long gone, and what she doesn’t know can’t hurt her.

“I'm no fun," Combeferre says, with the air of a man resigned to always being the chaperone at the party. "And a poor substitute for our Apollo." 

Still, he doesn’t say no.

Grantaire shrugs.

"A shame to waste the ticket. It costs me a night's tips."

"I'll pay you, of course," Combeferre says, and he sounds so earnest that Grantaire snorts.

"No, you won't. Or you'll leave right now. It was my choice. I should have thought to check his schedule. Or, you know, ask him. I don’t want it to go to waste, and I do want to go with someone who might appreciate it.”

"Perhaps I could chip in for pizza and beer before the concert, then?"

It's the first time Grantaire has ever heard Combeferre sound uncertain.

"And you say you're no fun," he says, but he reaches over to cover Combeferre’s hand with his own. "Sounds good. It's a - totally not a date."

“Thanks,” Combeferre says, already turning back to his endless medical tome. “I look forward to not dating you. Or something.”

*

Three weeks later, Grantaire is covered in plaster dust and ash and bent over double in an alley with Combeferre heaving beside him as they both try to catch their breath while looking mildly inconspicuous and not at all like they have just accidentally committed burglary, corporate espionage and a bonus round of accidental arson. 

They are not doing a very good job.

"Enjolas! Did anyone see Enjolras?"

Combeferre sounds as close to panic as Grantaire has ever heard. Despite the ringing in his ears, he hears the distinctive, tinny notification sound in Combeferre's pocket and plucks it out of his pants. Combeferre is the only person he knows who never bothers to update the factory settings on his phone. 

**Feuilly:** _We have our fearless leader, ruffled but undaunted. Headed home to regroup. Get off the streets. Everyone’s fine. Courf stayed behind to help the firemen evacuate. Vive la revolution, my friend_. 

“Enjolras is fine,” Grantaire says as his breathing begins to even out. He shows Combeferre the message.

Combeferre just laughs once and slides down against the wall. Even in the dark, Grantaire can see his face, still streaked with wide, white swathes of plaster dust. He looks as wild as Grantaire has ever seen. 

“I’m going to murder him. Possibly with my own bare hands.” He sounds so calm and matter-of-fact about it that Grantaire is honestly a little bit afraid he might mean it.

“Um, I don’t want to add fuel to the actual fire, but what just happened back there?” Grantaire asks.

He hears a weird, high-pitched screech and turns to the mouth of the alley, where a large, reddish-orange orangutan is regarding both of them with mild surprise. The ape makes another screech and swings onto a fire escape somewhere above their heads, and Grantaire decides to join Combeferre on the ground. 

The cement wall behind them is blessedly cool, and the alley seems free of any more primates for the moment. 

Combeferre waves a hand in the general direction of the way they’d run. It doesn’t escape Grantaire’s notice that, instead of his usually button-down shirt and khakis, Combeferre is dressed in a soft, form-fitting black t-shirt, a band’s logo almost completely flaked off the front, as well as dark, tight jeans and boots that Muschietta would envy.

“Enjolras wanted to scope out the building. We’re staging a die-in in the lobby next week and he wanted specs.”

“A die-in? Why?”

“It’s the headquarters of a big health insurance company.”

Grantaire shrugs. Okay, that sort of makes sense, at least.

“But the protest wasn’t tonight?”

“No,” Combeferre says, softly banging his head against the wall behind them. “When we got there, Enjolras overheard someone talking about the science lab on the 23rd floor. Apparently, they were doing some sort of primate experiment there, starting tonight. Before we could stop him, he just took off.”

“Like a dog,” Grantaire says. Possibly, in a few days – with a lot of wine and a really good shower behind him – this was doing to make a pretty funny story. Monkeys make everything funnier.

“Like a dog off his god—durned leash,” Combeferre says, and Grantaire suddenly finds his old-man habits, like not swearing and wearing a tie to class – more endearing than ever before.

“What happened that led – to this?” Grantaire asks. He was only here because Combeferre texted him to meet downtown, close to the club and a number of restaurants. Grantaire should know by now that questions are his friends.

“I have no idea,” Combeferre says. Grantaire manages to insinuate one of his hands behind Combeferre’s head before he knocks it against the wall again. It’s softer than he thought it might be. “Enjolras did this entirely by himself.”

“Impressive,” Grantaire says. It is. Amidst the chaos of the evening, Enjolras stood tall. He would happily have turned himself in if Courfeyac hadn’t latched on and physically dragged him from the building by his arm. Enjolras in full fury was a sight to behold.

Combeferre looks down at his watch – even in his dressed-down clothes he’s still wearing a wrist watch – and sighs.

“We missed the concert,” he says mournfully. “And dinner, and everything else.”

Grantaire smiles, even though he’s pretty sure Combeferre can’t see him.

“There’ll be other concerts. How often can you say you accidentally set a floor full of monkeys free?”

“They’re apes, not monkeys,” Combeferre corrects automatically, then flushes. “Not that it matters, I guess.”

Grantaire knocks his shoulder.

“It matters to you. So it matters.”

“You know, we share almost 99 percent of our DNA with apes. It makes them great study subjects, but it also means that we can’t just treat them like that. I still don’t think releasing them was a good idea, though.”

“We are the 99 percent,” Grantaire chants softly under his breath. He hears Combeferre huff out something like a laugh next to him. “I like that you care about that stuff. About the, I don’t know, the details. The facts. The stuff that actually matters.”

“Enjolras cares about the stuff that matters, too,” Combeferre says. He does, Grantaire truly believes.

“I know,” he says. “Also, judging by the look on his face, I’m pretty sure that Enjolras didn’t set them free on purpose. I don’t know what happened. But that’s what I mean. You see consequences, problems, the things that need to get solved on the ground. Enjolras sees everything from above the trees.”

“Good old dependable Combeferre,” Combeferre mutters. “Also, I’m pretty sure I saw an orangutan pull the fire alarm. Maybe they set themselves free. Lord knows what kind of experiments they were doing.”

“That’s not what I meant. I don’t mean you’re a stick in the mud. I just mean – I think the things you think matter – they do. And I think it’s important to have people in our lives like you. Smart, wise old dependable Combeferre.”

Grantaire freezes as he feels Combeferre’s eyes rake over him, even in the dark.

“You know, you’re not at all like what I imagined,” Combeferre says. “Especially not from hearing you and E go at it.”

“That’s what all the girls say,” Grantaire says, knowing how much his reputation precedes him.

“That’s not what I meant, either,” Combeferre says. “I think – you see things that matter, too.”

Grantaire glances over at him. He’s looking right at Grantaire’s profile, smiling.

“Sometimes I do,” he says. “But sometimes I can be a man of action, too.” 

He swings his leg over before he can think too much about it, twisting so he can straddle Combeferre’s lap. 

“Wait,” Combeferre says. He sounds shocked, but not displeased. Grantaire freezes, but Combeferre immediately grasps his forearms, reassuring. “Don’t stop. I just – are you sure?”

Grantaire shrugs.

“You know, I wasn’t disappointed at missing the concert tonight. Well, not _too_ much. But I was really bummed that we weren’t going to get any tipsy, handsy makeouts in dark corners. I just think the universe owes us.”

“Owes us, hunh?” Combeferre says. Grantaire tilts his head in response and their lips meet almost effortlessly. He uses a hand to wipe some of the grit from Combeferre’s face and he makes a pleased noise, settling Grantaire more firmly on his lap.

Combeferre tastes like stale gum and the metal spike of adrenaline and he kisses the way he studies, with intensity and focus and an impressive devotion to learning the subject at hand. At that thought, Grantaire breaks off the kiss and sits back on his haunches.

“Hey, wait a second,” he says, trying not to sound as breathless as he feels. “The concert! Doesn’t Enjolras have a big exam tomorrow? Why on earth were you even here tonight? Or was that just an excuse?” he says. 

It doesn’t seem like Combeferre, to thwart anything Enjolras might want, so maybe Combeferre is just throwing himself at Grantaire as a favor – 

“Hey,” Combeferre says, “Hey. I don’t know what you’re thinking, but it’s not good. I’m not – that wasn’t a lie. He does have a huge test tomorrow.”

“Then why are we even here?”

Combeferre sighs, and then starts to giggle, leaning his forehead against Grantaire’s as he wraps his broad hands around Grantaire's waist.

“Believe it or not, this was his study break.”

Grantaire throws back his head and laughs, and above them in the dark, he hears the low whoop of an orangutan on the lam. Combeferre’s hands support him, and their foreheads are still joined together in the dark, and Enjolras deserves a bouquet of flowers for this, even though he won’t actually understand why. 

Grantaire settles himself more firmly on Combeferre’s lap. 

“I need to look into grad school,” he mutters, and swallows Comberferre’s startled bark of laughter in another kiss.   

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much to goshemily for her handholding and for helping me take the plunge into a new fandom, and to the mods of the challenge, who made it so easy to work with their guidelines. Happy Holidays!


End file.
